FestoonsWhen the turning sun rides the carpet over the moon; As thorns subside among withered roses; The tide of all things becomes day; The cadence of each wind reminds its time to go; Time to chide. Time to sow. Eager not the slumbering depths; Layers
tags: MExclusive,
from: http://mexclusive.tumblr.com/post/75850940293
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